Amid a vale in Norway stands a church,
An ancient building, on historic ground;
Its massive walls are white like newfall’n snow,
Its lofty spire seems golden in the sun;
Around it mighty elm-trees spread their boughs
And throw their shadows on the moss-grown graves,
And crumbling monuments of centuries,
Their music blending with the jack-daw’s cry
And with the deep, pure tones of bells, whose sound
Reecho ’mong the wooded hills and dells,
Awaking fancies of the Saga-age:
Of royal bards who sang before their king,
That early morning of the fatal day,
When Olaf ’neath his standard of the cross
Fought pagan armies from those sloping heights,
And lost his cause! The altar has been built
Above the stone, he leaned against, while flowed
His precious life-blood from the cruel wounds;
The ground was consecrated by his blood,
And when the people understood, and bowed
Before the Christ whose saint they slew, they built
A chapel on the place of martyrdom,
Which in succeeding ages was enlarged,
Until a worthy monument stood forth.
The ravages of time have wrought their change,
But it is ne’ertheless the trysting place
Between the valley’s people and their God,
A place which links the present to the past--
And heaven’s gates to Norway’s history.
* * * * *
On parchment, dim with age, a chronicle,
Two cycles old, was found within a chest,
Amid the iron-coffins in the vaults
Below the church, which learnèd parsons read,
And then restored it to its resting-place.
For some strange reason then the narrow door
Was closed up with a solid masonry;
But on the people’s lips, from age to age,
The legend of that chronicle has passed,
And I relate it here as told to me,
When but a boy, by my great grandmother.--
One day, the legend says, the parish priest,
A young and pious man, came to the church,
To read the mass for a departed friend,
When he beheld a lonely woman stand
Within the shadow of a mountain-ash,
Which spread its crown of green and red beside
The gate which led into the sacred place.
Her hair was black as night, her eyes a deep
Of melancholy mystery and dreams;
Her chiselled features had the striking charm
Of youthful beauty and a mind mature;
She was unlike the women of the vale,
A stranger whom the priest had never met;
And he espied her with a sense of fear.
Her sable garb and downcast mien betrayed
A state of grief, wherefore the kindly man,
Led by a heartfelt sympathy, did ask
What great bereavement weighed upon her soul,
To which she answered: “Sir, I sorrow not
For any one within this hallowed ground,
Nor elsewhere for the dead; but for this church
I grieve, when I behold how it is doomed
To dire destruction”--here she paused and sighed.
Now he surmised she was the prophetess,
The sibyl whose renown had come to him,
And therefore asked that she would further tell
About her vision of the things to be.
“I see two saplings, of the mountain ash,
Grow up, one on each side of this thy church,
I also see a breach made in the wall,
And when the saplings have grown up to meet--
As mighty trees above the chancel-roof,
And when the rent shall grow sufficient wide
To be the hiding of a prayer book,
Then shall the church sink down and be no more.”
Then quote the priest, with frown upon his face:
“The house built on a rock can never sink.”
“But what is built on sand the floods destroy,”
The sibyl said, and quickly went away.
* * * * *
Into the church the parson passed, and knelt
Before the altar in an earnest prayer,
That God would have great mercy on the soul
Of his departed friend whose earthly life
Had been cut off in a most tragic way;
His widow now bestowing on the church
Rich offerings--atonements for his deeds
Of sinfulness--outweighing charity;
And while he prayed, he seemed to hear the cry
And groaning of the soul, from out the fire
Of purgatory; supplications strong
Ascended to the mercy-seat of God
From humble altar-steps, until he felt,
The soul was loosed in heaven as on earth.
Departing from the church, he looked about
For that strange, mournful face; but she was gone.
Then came a thought to him, a memory
Of something which the baron him had told:
How on a summer’s day, while on a hunt,
He met a maiden in a forest glen,
A slender girl of beauty, such as he
Had seldom seen--of Oriental cast,
Who weeping told him of his fate most dire,
That fire should him consume, a prophesy
So terribly fulfilled, and now, perchance,
The very same had prophesied to him;
This thought possessed his mind, as home he strode,
With dark forbodings of impending doom.
* * * * *
It was a Sunday, in the month of June,
A morn of most bewitching summer-charms;
The air was charged with fragrance of the trees,
Of blooming cherry trees, and glist’ning birch,
Of mountain ash and tow’ring balsam trees,
Of hazel-wood and prickly juniper,
Of alder trees along the winding brooks,
Of mountain forest of the pungent pine;
Of thousand flowers in the meads and vales,
An odor sweet--unknown to tropic clime.--
Within God’s acre stood the nodding rose
In checkered sunlight, neath the cypress tree,
And greeted every breeze that wandered by.
Groups of the peasant folk were gathering
About the graves, in silent thoughtfulness,
And some in sorrow round the recent mounds;
The air so calm and mild with fragrance filled,
The tolling of the church bells deep and strong,
Made this a day of sweet solemnity,
Felt by the aged and the youth alike;
And while they lingered, lo, the sibyl came.
From group to group a whisper passed with awe:
“It is the sibyl!” Slowly gathering
About her, fearing what she might pronounce,
They gazed upon her pale and mournful face.
“All is but vanity, all things are nought,
All flesh is grass, which flourisheth a while,
Then withers, dies, and mingles with the dust,--
Like leaves upon the trees which now are green,
And full of juice, but in the autumn turn
All sear and yellow, falling to the ground,
Whirled by the chilling blast into a heap,--
And thus must ye return to dust some day,
And all your work must perish, even so;
Yea, even the church must perish on that day,
When crowns of mountain ash trees meet above
The chancel roof, and when the wall receives
Within its rent a common prayer book,
Then shall the earth engulf it, and the pride
Of generations perish in the deep.”
Thus spake the sibyl, and the fearful crowd
Displeasure showed by mien and murmuring;
One, much perturbed, essayed to argue thus:
“Thy words, O woman, are but idle talk;
This church, built on such firm and rocky ground,
Can never sink, such prophecy is vain;”
To which she answered with a sigh subdued:
“I’ve told you only what I’ve heard and seen
In truest vision of the things to come.”
These words were uttered as the last bell rang
Its summons to the Mass, obeyed at once
By all the people, leaving her alone;
And while they prayed, she found a resting-place
Within the cooling shadow of the church,
And listened to a lark that soared on high,
Against the blue of heaven’s temple-dome,
And to the chorus ’mongst the sighing trees,
But most of all did note the jack-daws cry,
That melancholy bird of occult hue;
As in a trance she listened to them all,
To thousand voices of a summer’s day;
But ere the Mass was ended rose and went
Along a forest path her solitary way.
* * * * *
Then after many years, upon a morn
In early autumn, when the aspen trees
Were turning golden, and the starlings sang
In darkling flocks from meadows shorn and sear,
The pastor took his much accustomed walk,
For he did love to be alone and muse
Upon the wondrous scenes around his home,
And feel great nature’s sweet and changing moods.
Although the years had turned his hair to grey,
And robbed his steps of elasticity,
Still was his spirit quite susceptible
To happiness, but more to sorrow’s touch,
And on a day like this with feelings mixed,
The sadness of the dying summer won,
And thoughts of life, its purpose and its end
Did occupy his mind as he did meet
The sibyl, by a certain turn of road;
For twenty years he had not seen her face,
And it did startle him to meet her now.
She, too, had changed, and silver locks adorned
Her noble forehead, but her eyes were keen
And piercing, even as in days of youth.
And as she stopped to speak with him, he felt
Their searching glances knew his very soul.
“Long working-day has God ordained for thee”,
She said, to which he sadly answered thus:
“My life seems but a transitory dream,
And all its efforts profitless and vain.”
“When thou art dust, thy prayer shall be heard,”
She said a-smiling, and passed on her way.
He too moved on, while pondering her words,--
The dark enigma of the prophetess.
* * * * *
The Sibyl’s prophecies we thus have heard,
And their fulfilment now we will relate,
Which have their place in ages afterwards.--
The priest as well as prophetess were gone,
And so were generations after them,
Half hidden by the dread oblivion;
The prophecy forgotten;--but a few
Had heard it as an old tradition vague,
A fable only, to which none gave heed,
Though twain ash saplings grew from year to year,
And saw at least two generations pass,
Before their branches met above the church;
A breach also was creeping from the ground
Up through the side-wall’s massive masonry,
Increasing with the changes of the years,
Two things which did recall the sibyl’s lore,
And led the people to cut down the trees,
To fill the rent and hide it from man’s view.
Again they felt assured that all was well,
But from the roots new shoots began to grow
And unmolested through full many years.
* * * * *
For ages had the river sung its song,
A-blending with the church bells’ melody;
May be it was the charm of liquid chimes,
Which drew the river closer year by year,
But almost imperceptibly,
Until one spring it overflowed its banks,
And in a rage, fed by the mountain-streams,
Did wear away the distance from the church,
And forced its course up to the church-yard wall.
A gruesome scene it wrought, as days went by;
The coffins in the graves began to show,
And bones in sepulchres of old decay;
Occasionally came a musty skull
A-whirling down the maelstrom of the flood,
And now and then a crash and splash was heard,
When some tall monument did tumble down,
Its name and praise lost in the seething deep,
For nought can man achieve but it is doomed,
At last, to ruin and oblivion.
And mighty trees were undermined and sank
With loads of earth, their branches ’mid the stream,
Like outstreched arms, imploring heav’n for help.
The people also lifted hands in prayer,
For night and day they feared the dreadful hour,
When--as it seemed--the church must be destroyed.
The pastor summoned them to spend a day
In penitence and supplication true.
They came from far and near both old and young,
Yea, even the sick and crippled folk were brought,
That all might help to lift one prayer to heaven,
A common prayer from their humble hearts,
Through him who knelt upon the altar stair,
Whose voice had notes of anguish for his church.
With tears a penitential psalm was sung,
On bended knee; and when again they rose
To leave the place, they passed with downcast heads
Out through the chancel door, beside the which
The old time rent was plainly visible,
And where again the mountain-ash had reached
Above the roof, and met another’s crown.
With fear they listened to the water’s roar,
(Now only hundred cubits from the church)
And to the moaning of the chilly wind,
Which bare the rainclouds o’er the naked fields.
* * * * *
It was the midnight hour, and densely dark,
In torrents fell the rain, the thunder rolled,
And lurid lightning gleamed across the sky,
Its light revealing nature’s misery,
And one lone woman groping ’mongst the graves,
Who sought the church that she too there might
pray,
The only one who at the mid-day mass
Had absent been, for death had kept her home,--
Her husband struggling with the last grim foe.
The struggle being ended, she desired
To share in that great prayer of the day.
For this she stemmed the terror of the night
And spectral fear of sepulchres and shrine;
She found the door unlocked and opened it,
She entered, crossed herself, and sought a pew,
And fervently God’s mercy did implore.
Then something strange did happen, for behold,
The church became with dazzling light illumed,
And stranger still, a crowd of people streamed
Through every door, and without footfall sound.
A congregation, not of mundane mien,
But glorious in countenance and dress,
Whose utter silence seemed a breath of praise.
They filled the seats, and by the woman sat;
But to her touch they were as empty space.
Up from the vaults below emerged a band of priests,
Arrayed as in the days when each did serve
Before the altar of this selfsame church;
All knelt; but one ascended to the Host,
An aged man, whose picture still adorned
The gallery, about whose name there clung
The legend of the sibyl’s prophecy.
He led them in a supplication strong,
Both for the living and the many dead,
Whose ashes were imperiled by the flood,
And that kind heaven would spare the sacred shrine.
Now Kyrie Eleison sang the flock,
With hands outstretched toward burning altar lights.
While all the ministers exclaimed: Amen!
The woman felt such wondrous happiness,
She thought that she had died and gone to heaven,
Yea, all at once she felt assured of this,
For now she saw her husband, and near him
Two little ones, departed years ago.
She ran with joy to clasp them in her arms,
But they did vanish from her fond embrace;
Yea, all did vanish, even the heavenly lights,
And she stood there alone in darkness gross;
The silence, too, was gone, and now the storm,
Which raged in all its fury, took its place.
A distant rumbling noise was clearly heard,
And then a terror-striking thunder-crash;
The church did tremble in its very depths;
The woman thought the judgment-day had come;
Her strength did fail her, and she swooned away.
* * * * *
When morning o’er the mountain-tops appeared,
There was no cloud to hinder its approach,
And all creation hailed its harbinger:
The first faint blushes of the snowcapped peak;
The raindrops on the grass and upon trees
Soon glittered like innumerable pearls
And diamonds on the bosom of the earth.
The hidden chorus in the woods began
Its songs of praise for the returning calm.
In every home the frightened people ’rose,
And hardly dared to speak what most they feared,--
The church destroyed--and timidly the first
Came to behold the ruins of the night;
But when they saw the church still standing there,
They ran to tell the people and the priest,
Who came with joy and found it even so.
A miracle, it seemed, had taken place:
The raging flood had wholly disappeared,
Its empty channel bearing witness to
How great and terrible had been its pow’r.
A mighty landslide from the mountain side
Had changed its course back to an ancient bed,
And what the people thought the dreadful noise
Of their beloved sanctuary’s fall,
Was of the rushing, rumbling earthen slide.
How great was now their joy, when they perceived,
That God had heard their prayer and spared His house!
With praise the priest across the threshold stepped,
And many followed gladly after him,
To join in common, heartfelt gratitude;
But suddenly an unexpected scene
Possessed their souls and filled them with alarm:
Before the altar steps a woman lay,
Stark dead, it seemed, for cold and pale was she,
And for a moment all did hesitate
To touch her, thinking she was surely dead,--
A moment--only this, for soon the priest
Had ascertained that life was not extinct,
And altar-wine helped to resuscitate;
Now slowly she emerged from deadly swoon,
And gaining consciousness at last could tell,
Why she had come to be in such a place,
And all the things which she had heard and seen,
Of phantom congregation and its mass,
Of priests in strange array before the Host.
They marvelled greatly at her narrative,
When said the pastor: “I believe forsooth
The spirits of the dead have worshiped here,
Joined in the prayers of their living friends,
And now a legend, clust’ring ’round the name
Of him whose picture you have pointed out,
Comes to my mind, the sibyl’s prophecy:
“When thou art dead, thy prayer shall be heard.”